Page 68 of Wicked Believer
Like there’s this constant ache inside my chest that needs soothing, and he’s the only one who can possibly ease it.
I hate how much I crave what he does to me.
But I still want it.
I keep my head low, straining to stop myself from looking up until he tells me to. The first time I made that mistake, he ordered me to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed for nearly a week, but I’ll never take for granted what a privilege it is to sleep beside him now, wrapped up in his arms. I know our protocol backward and forward.
And I’ll never break it again.
Not unintentionally, at least.
The sounds of his steps draw closer until, from where my head’s lowered, I can see the smooth polish of his Armanis, the shine of his shoes, but still, he doesn’t say anything.
“Please, Daddy?” I whisper, defiant, cheeky. Like I used to be.
Like he sometimes likes me to be.
He growls. “You know better than to speak before spoken to.”
I lower my head in feigned obedience, and he huffs slightly.
“Sir will do for tonight.” He pats my head like I’m his creature, his pet, and I have to force myself not to lean into it because I’m justthatdesperate for him to touch me. “You know what to do, darling.”
My cheeks flush as I lower my head and kiss his shoes. On occasion, when I’ve lost myself in the haze of subspace, I’ve wanted to curl up and rest my head there, gazing up at him adoringly. But now, the thought of my own need simply fills me with shame.
Shame he’s going to work out of me.
Like he’s exorcising my demons away.
I try to silence those unfair thoughts, but without him, it feels useless.
I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’twantthis, and yet, I do.
Even when it feels like the whole world’s crumbling around us.
I crave this, crave him.
Nearly as much as I know he craves me.
The smell of his shoe polish and the Italian leather of his Armanis fills my nose as I gently lay a second kiss on his other shoe, the scent reminding me of some of the toys he might use on me this evening.
Sometimes, if I’ve been particularly good, he’ll let me choose which tools he uses as a reward, a special treat. Though tonight, I have no intention of being good.
It’s his punishment I need.
And we both know it.
He turns away from me then, not offering me the privilege, and despite all the ways I’ve purposefully misbehaved, somehow the thought that I haven’t been good for him guts me.
I want to be good.
I want to be good for him so badly it scares me.
It’s my own insecurities that drive me to test boundaries, the limits of his love. Only for his punishment to reassure me that he’ll always be there for me in the end. Nothing I could ever do could drive him away, make him abandon me like my father did.
Like his Father did to him.
I can be my most dark and wicked self with him.
